


Beyond the Walls of a Well Known Keep

by prgs



Series: Tales of the Dragon Age, 4E [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 22:27:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14174691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prgs/pseuds/prgs
Summary: An exploration of Nathaniel Howe's hesitance to accept both the Wardens and their Commander, Aribeth Tabris, and its eventual transformation into admiration, pride, and love.





	Beyond the Walls of a Well Known Keep

The stars were bright that night. The smoke had cleared since the attack on Vigil's Keep and the welcome sight above left many gazing upwards; finally, they thought, an unaltered sky. Nathaniel was no different. He sipped from his bottle with a contentment he had not felt for many months, making a point of ignoring his bitterness for one night. Beside him, Oghren focused on his mead and Anders dozed off, Ser Pounce-a-lot curled in his lap. The Warden Commander slept separate in her tent, having departed from the fire earlier than the rest of them as she often did. She was an enigma to Nathaniel; stubborn, witty, kind, and confident, yet an elf and a woman both. He had not seen her like before.  
"She's a wonder, is she not?" he remarked to the dwarf, his tongue loosened by ale and high spirits. "Charming, to be sure, though not pretty. Simply... intriguing."  
Oghren shifted towards him, a stubby finger at once in his face. "Oi! Watch yourself with her. Her heart has ought to be in half a million pieces, without drink nor any vice to patch it up, even all sloppy like."  
Anders seemed to rouse with the conversation beside him. "Half a million is an awful lot of pieces, Oghren. Perhaps you know where they might be?"  
Oghren took a swig of his flask, filled with a sudden passion.  
"By my Ancestors I do. And I knew her _before_ everyone bowed at her feet. Back then, they mostly just spat at them. Heh."  
Nathaniel shifted a little, intrigued. "I heard she was from the Alienage in Denerim, but I didn't believe it. I hardly believed she was an elf when they first told me. Is the former true?"  
"That it is, my friend, that it is. Poor as dirt for more years than not."  
"And her heart?" Anders inquired in a hushed tone, now fully awake. "What of that tender topic?"  
"Ah, the heart. Not even the greatest warrior of the age can defeat that foe. Unless they get really sodding drunk."  
Oghren grew solemn for a moment as Nathaniel and Anders exchanged glances, both relating to the desperation of relying on gossip from a drunk.  
"Did she say she was in love? No. But I bloody _know_ it. You've never seen twinkling eyes on the battlefield until you had seen those two. Meaningful glances between darkspawn guts, the whole deal."  
"And who _was_ her lover?" Nathaniel asked, genuinely curious, unable to picture the Warden Commander in such a state. She was a hard woman; seeing her behead a hurlock in one strike was quite different from seeing her in love.  
Oghren gave him a hard look as he sipped from his flask.  
"Ask her yourself, kid."  
Anders sighed. "I can't decide if we should get him more or less drunk for him to tell us."  
"You don't get to find out."  
Oghren belched, then flopped down onto his side, apparently calling it a night.  
"Well then," Anders whispered, glancing at Aribeth's tent. "I suppose some investigative work is in order."

  
...

  
The morning was brisk, the sky bleak; a day promising rain and a chill amidst their travels. Anders flanked them all as they walked, obviously miserable. Oghren didn't seem to mind as much, walking alone, stopping when he pleased. Nathaniel took his place beside the Warden Commander, admiring the gleam of her red hair among the lifeless colours around them. She smiled at his approach.  
"I see you're being an optimist today, ‘eh Nathaniel? Perhaps the sun will surprise us yet. It is early still."  
"Refraining from pouting like a child every time the sky is grey does not make me an optimist, Commander," he replied. "Simply a grown man."  
She smirked. "Well, okay. Fine by me."  
Her footsteps were heavy as they walked, an unavoidable result of the armour on her back. He wondered how her tiny frame could carry such a massive set, then scolded himself for assuming it couldn’t; this was the Hero of Ferelden.  
"Commander? If I may," he began after a moment, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. "What did the Archdemon look like? Was it simply a dragon tainted, similar to the darkspawn?"  
Aribeth pursed her lips, not responding with haste. "Well, I'd call the beast ugly, and that would be no falsehood, but there was some magnificence to its grandeur. And its stench was something entirely unable to be replicated- like the smell of a comet in flight and the blood of every Warden slain by tainted hands."  
Nathaniel tried to imagine it. He had heard stories of the Battle at Fort Drakon, of the deafening screams; of the shadow it cast upon the city; of piles of bodies, twisted and broken, desolate and revolting. When he first had heard the tales he was only glad he had avoided it. Now, however, he felt a twinge of guilt, as if he had missed a war he had been waiting for. Such a feeling was ridiculous, he knew. He was no Warden during the Blight.

“I imagine you were closer to the beast than most. Those who lived, anyhow.”

She clenched her jaw. “Yes, I imagine that’s true.”

“And it died at the bastard Prince’s hands. A fitting end.”

“He was a Grey Warden first,” she replied, her voice sharp. “No one who knew him thought of him as a bastard or a Prince. Just a Warden, and a good man.”

Nathaniel nodded, unsure of what to say, beginning to suspect he had answered his question from the previous night. He regretted his questions; they came out rough, his usual solemnity not good practice for the art of speechcraft.

“Alistair, his name was?”

“Yes,” she replied hastily. “A name little heard as of late, despite everything. I suppose it’s easier to forget. Or at least _pretend_ to.”

He furrowed his brows. “Surely you jest? Everyone speaks of the one who-”

“Nathaniel!” Oghren’s voice interrupted him from behind, closer than he had thought. “Come here for a moment and help an old Deep Roads veteran with his pack.”

Aribeth waved him towards Oghren and walked on ahead, leaving his words unsaid.

“What is it, dwarf?” he asked, unable to hide his annoyance at the interruption of their conversation.

“Don’t go shoving your nose where it don’t belong is what!” he replied, his voice hushed in its anger.

“Are you joking? You said yourself I should go to the source should I want answers.”

Oghren shook his head. “The topic is tender, kid. You shouldn’t have listened to my suggestions at all. I was drunk.”

“What, is this some secret now?”

“Well it surely isn’t conversation to have over bloody nug!”

Nathaniel sighed. “I can’t pretend to understand that. I’m going to walk away, now.”

He slowed his pace, pursing his lips, his mood now sour. Oghren glanced back at him, his eyes resolute.

Nathaniel knew little of the renowned Alistair Therin, only that which he had heard from the words of gossiping soldiers and barkeeps. He was King Maric’s bastard son and a Grey Warden, formerly trained as a Templar. They said he lost the throne during the Landsmeet to Queen Anora and gave his life slaying the Archdemon as a result. He had heard nothing on his relationship with Aribeth, and hadn’t even truly considered it until now. One was mentioned, and then the other. They were the last two survivors of Ostagar. Their stories did not seem to intertwine any further, yet now to him it seemed obvious and horribly sad.

He startled as Anders came up behind him, patting him on the back.

“Found out any gossip? I could use it. I think I felt a raindrop on my nose. Ser Pounce-a-lot is not going to like _that._ ”

Nathaniel scowled. “I have more questions than answers. What do you know of Alistair Therin?”

“What, the handsome literal bastard? Not too much. I heard he was ashamed of losing the throne to Anora, having planned to be king since Cailen died. Not sure if that’s true, but it’s what I’ve heard.”

“He was handsome? You met him?”

“Oh, no. I’m just assuming. It makes it more storybook.” Anders laughed. “What, are you jealous?”

“Shut up.”

The two walked together in silence as the rain began to fall, gentle at first, then unrelenting. Only Aribeth seemed truly unbothered, a look of distraction upon her face.

 

...

 

Returning to the Vigil after days in the Deep Roads was a welcome relief to all involved; Nathaniel wanted little more than a warm bath and a well-cooked meal, and smiled as he slept on something other than stone. Anders snuck off to meet someone outside the Keep, Oghren drank, and the Warden Commander completed business of the arling. Nathaniel was left with the rare occasion to do as he pleased, and growing bored, he walked the grounds.

The sky above the Keep was a harmony of pink and deep blue as the sun set, the air still warm. Most of the soldiers were inside, drinking and playing cards as the night allowed. Nathaniel glanced around, glad for the quiet, surprised that even Wade had left his forge for the night. 

The guard at the gate seemed to notice his loitering. “Nathaniel Howe, is it? Not one for merriment?”

Nathaniel flinched as she spoke his name, unsure if it was a slight. “Not exactly. Do I know you, Ser?”

The woman smiled. “I wouldn’t think so. I’m no Warden, yet. Just arrived a little over two weeks ago from Denerim.”

She was pretty, a woman no more than twenty, with brown curls falling out from under her helm. Nathaniel was surprised he had not noticed her before.

“Then how, may I ask, do you know _me_?”

“You’re often at the side of the Warden Commander, and are respected in the Keep. Would you rather I _not_ know you?”

“I have no opinion.” Nathaniel thought on her words, silent for a moment. “You’re from Denerim, you say? Were you in the army?”

“I personally served one of the banns,” she replied. Her voice was filled with the arrogance of youth, eager to prove herself.

Nathaniel walked to her side, curiosity overwhelming hesitance. “Were you present for the Landsmeet, then?”

She grinned. “Indeed I was, Ser Howe. Watched it like it was a stage play from above. It was the first time I had seen the Commander. Inspiring, she was.”

“And what was her role there? Did she vouch for the bastard prince?”

“By the Maker, the stories people tell. No, she vouched for Queen Anora, as did he. Ser Alistair didn’t even want the throne. He was there for Loghain’s head and justice for Ostagar.”

Nathaniel pursed his lips, remembering the Commander’s words. “Just a Warden and a good man.”

The woman shrugged. “Yes, I suppose that’s it.”

Nathaniel paused, wondering if Aribeth’s displeasure came from twisted tales of her plight; the idea of an ambitious bastard prince pure folly when compared to the truth: a Warden seeking justice. The former was easier to ignore.

He was distracted from his thoughts when the guard grabbed his hand. “Perhaps we should continue our discussion somewhere more private. There’s Ned to replace me on my watch. Come, now.”

Nathaniel followed her as she pulled him towards the unused barracks, a place once meant for refugees, now little more than storage. Her fingers traced his hand as they entered, and he leaned in as the door shut behind them, thrilled for a moment, feeling like the young man he was back in the Free Marches. There was a pause between them as she removed her helmet, tossing it aside gently, leaving no room for misunderstanding. She kissed him hastily as he gripped the curls that fell loose from her braid, her tongue tasting of an Antivan tea common among the promiscuous. She reached for his manhood without subtlety. Eager, it seemed, as if they had somewhere to be. Nathaniel hesitated, pulling his lips away, his eyes on the rafters.

She was bold in her gaze. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done this before, Ser Howe.”

He grimaced. “I have had many women.”

“Then shall we continue?” she asked, her tone annoyed, obviously unfamiliar with rejection.

Nathaniel pushed her away suddenly, harshly, as if just realizing what was about to occur. “I am a Grey Warden. I have responsibilities, and cannot fuck every woman who wishes it. Seek out the mage for such pursuits.”

He left the barracks in a hurry, a feeling of disgust engulfing him; disgust with himself and the woman, with all of Ferelden, and with any and all gossip-mongers. He went to bed that night frustrated, his thoughts unable to formulate anything of substance as he lay restless in his bunk.

The guard caught his eye the next morning as he departed with the Commander to Amaranthine, her expression tame.

"Don't worry," she whispered in his ear as he passed, intrepid as she seemed to be. “I understand.”

 

...

 

“The Blackmarsh, Commander? Are you sure about this?”

Nathaniel was wary; he had grown up to tales of the place, none inviting, yet towards it they traveled. If anything, the Veil was almost certainly thin, promising battles of a demonic sort.

Aribeth grinned, unfazed, exposing her chipped tooth. “Don’t worry, Nathaniel. I’ll chop down any beasties that threaten my noble archer.”

He laughed, rolling his eyes. “Noble archer, is it now? That’s a far stretch from disagreeable thief.”

“I’ll still call you that, Nathaniel, don’t you worry,” Anders chimed in merrily.

The four walked with a jovial step despite their destination; the day was bright and the air crisp, their bodies not yet sore from battle and lack of sleep. Their newest companion, the dwarf Sigrun, was welcome company as well, though Nathaniel would never admit as much; filling the hole a drunk warrior left with an inquisitive and positive mind.

Anders and their new recruit entertained each other well enough as well, chatting behind himself and the Commander without a care.

“You know,” Aribeth began as they walked, looking thoughtful. “Before I was a Warden, I had never left Denerim. I was growing stir-crazy. The Blackmarsh would be a _dream_ a year ago, despite everything. Perhaps it still can be.”

“I assumed as much, considering your thirst for... exploration. When I was a youth, I often wished for the same; knighthood, adventure, the lot of it. Now I sometimes miss having nowhere to be.”

“I suppose childhood fancies can indeed be the same for little noble boys and poor elven girls.”

Aribeth shrugged, looking intently at the dark trail ahead of them. “The morning of my marriage I even considered joining the Dalish. Ha. As if they’d even consider taking in one as wild as myself.”

Nathaniel opened his mouth, then closed it, shocked by her words. “Marriage? You’re _married_ , Commander?”

“Maker, I love getting people all dumbfounded with that.” She laughed, though her voice grew quiet. “No, it never happened. My betrothed was murdered by noblemen.”

Nathaniel furrowed his brows. “Why? What reason did they have? Was there justice?”

“Their _reasons_ were nothing beyond pride and drunken foolery. They had taken some elven women to be raped, and my betrothed attempted to stop it. My cousin was not spared their evil, but I was, as were my companions. And justice was served.”

Nathaniel was quiet for a moment, disgusted with her tale. “Were these men hanged?”

Aribeth looked disturbed, glancing at him with an intensity he did not understand. “No. I killed them.”

He did not know what to say and so he remained silent. Images of an elven bride bloodied in her marriage gown clouded his mind while he wondered how she got away with such an act; perhaps the guards were sympathetic to her reasoning. Still, an elf murdering a nobleman... the tale could easily be a fable. Though something in her expression was earnest, he knew, and he would not doubt her.

They walked on, saying little more, the day still bright, their companions still in conversation behind them. Nathaniel believed he was beginning to understand this woman beside him, a Warden who was once little more than a symbol shrouded with his hatred.

...

Oghren’s sneeze was beyond loud, and Nathaniel flinched, worrying it would wake the Commander. Justice, the spirit possessing a dead man’s corpse, glanced over with a nervous confusion, but calmed when he realized nothing was amiss. They relapsed into silence quickly, the moon and stars hanging over them like a thick blanket, their ale cradling them like warm milk might a babe. The days in the Blackmarsh had been difficult; even Justice seemed as if his eyes were drooping.

Nathaniel, tired though he was, continued to stew over the Warden Commander, hanging onto her every word, too somber to ask more, too invested to ignore her. And so he decided, quite grumpily, he would go again to Oghren for aid. It seemed that now was his last chance; this was likely their final night before one of them would be sent scouting ahead on the path to the Keep as Sigrun had two days previous. Oghren had met with them the day before, surprisingly sober, sitting on the side of the road like a pauper. The Commander liked to know what to expect, both on the road ahead and at the Vigil, and constantly had her companions playing scout. It was a paranoia, Nathaniel thought, but he wouldn’t criticize her for it.

His idea of using the drunkard was risky; Aribeth slept not far away, underneath the stars rather than separate in a tent, snoring, curled up as a young mabari might. The sight made him smile, though he knew she could awaken at anytime to hear their gossip.

“Oghren. I need to ask you about the Commander.”

“Eh?” The dwarf perked up slightly from his slumber, though his eyes remained closed. “This _again_? By my Ancestors.”

“She told me she was once to be married. And that her betrothed was murdered, and that she herself was almost raped, and that she killed the men responsible. Is this some jest of hers? I cannot believe such a tale; surely there would be some punishment if they were of noble blood. By Andraste, I was nearly bloody executed for stealing my own belongings. But I cannot take her for a liar.”

Oghren sat up, looking at Nathaniel with surprised, tired eyes. “I’ve never heard you say so many damn words.”

Nathaniel had little patience, already feeling vulnerable. “Tell me what you know or tell me to sod off. I have energy for little else.”

“Fine, fine. I know of what you speak. The Witch of the Wilds told me all about it.”

Nathaniel sighed. “If you want to poke fun at me, do it with the mage so it's obvious. I’m going to sleep.”

“You think I’d _lie_? About my damned Commander? I haven’t drank _half_ as much as I would need to for that. Should I continue or not?”

His voice grew loud and Nathaniel shifted nervously, bringing his own voice down to a whisper. “Yes, fine. I’m sorry. Carry on.”

“It was an arranged marriage, as I heard it, so there was no love involved. Or sex, probably. But don't take my word for that. Anyways, the Commander didn’t really have the stomach for the whole situation, but was doing it for her father. An absolute classic situation. So, there they were, about to be wed, and then some nug-humping oaf of noble blood comes up and says he has the right to bed the bride before the husband. Heh. Can you imagine her facing him _now?_   She’d cut his head clean off and say a Qunari did it.”

 _And rightly so,_ Nathaniel thought. “She said she did as much then.”

“In a sense,” Oghren continued, disliking the interruption to his tale. “But she was no warrior in the Alienage, just a scrappy girl. Their deaths were certainly not half so clean. Her cousin, about as hot-blooded as her, attacked one, and so the lords took them all as their damned pride demanded. Beyond that, the Witch didn’t know much. She said she got the story from a servant in Denerim for a silver, though _I_ suspect she used some unholy combination of seduction and blood magic. Anyways, she said they escaped somehow, stole some weapons, and killed every one of them. The Commander took all the blame, which explains why she is where she is now.”

Nathaniel could feel a tightness in his stomach; a mixture of disgust, understanding, and a longing to crawl over to the Commander and hold her. “What do you mean, it explains where she is now?”

“The Warden-Commander at the time just happened to stroll through the Alienage and invoke the Right of Conscription before she was hanged. Handy, ‘eh? And some good damned foresight if you ask me.”

“So she _was_ punished. _This_ is her punishment. By the Maker.”

Oghren chuckled. “It’s no big secret.”

Nathaniel didn’t know what to think; he had always imagined her willingly joining the Wardens; an honourable, talented soldier ignoring personal sacrifice to bolster their ranks. But she was like him; _worse_ , even, because her crime was murder rather than theft, and the only experience she likely had was street fighting and playing with wooden swords.

He sighed, and as Oghren beside him drifted back to sleep, Nathaniel was left alone with the crackling of the campfire and his countless thoughts. He knew the surprise was his own fault. He had wanted so deeply to resent her, to ignore any possibility of understanding or friendship, that so he had created an idea of the Hero in his mind that was entirely false, and with the facade crumbling, he had nothing to shroud his undeniable admiration.

He could not sleep that night despite the exhaustion that seeped into his limbs. He closed his eyes and thought of her, of her lover, of the darkspawn, of justice, and of demons. He would dream for mere minutes before waking, his mind filled with unfinished confessions and actions he would never be bold enough to take. Then he’d open an eye, roll-over, and see her not far away from himself, wondering how she slept so soundly. Perhaps that too was a false assumption, as so many other things had been, and her dreams were truly nightmares.

He watched as the sun began to rise and catch in her tangled hair, and as her face scrunched itself with the rude awakening of sunlight. She yawned, rolled on her back, opened her eyes, and watched the russet clouds above with her hands on her belly. Nathaniel finally fell asleep as she woke, curled on his side, his thoughts calming with the rising sun.

...

The past four days had been grey; fitting, perhaps, for the perpetual gloom of Vigil’s Keep.

Storm clouds had swarmed above since their arrival from the Blackmarsh, and all remained restless indoors. The Commander was among them, braving the sparring grounds when the rain was light, though such occasions had been rare, and she was left pacing the halls more often than not. She had seemed particularly irritable since their return, likely a result of one of Varel’s many letters or discussion of the arling. She listened intently but never seemed to know how to respond, and instead stewed on her words and responses until the moment she could no longer, distracting herself with the ring of her blade.

Nathaniel saw it now, surprised he hadn’t before, wondering if it was obvious to the nobility she dealt with on the daily: she was not educated and had no mind for such business. And it _embarrassed_ her, he knew, and watching her recoil from letters in a self-conscious gloom made him grind his teeth with anger. She had defeated countless darkspawn and done endless good, yet still she was criticized for her lack of political knowledge. The thought disgusted him. He wanted to comfort her, to remind her such things didn’t matter to a Warden of her stature, but knew such words would only shame her more; pity was hardly welcome to one who deserved so much. She was better with talk of war, straightening up with confidence as it was mentioned, her voice strong, but such discussions were rare amidst the business of taxes and petty crime and mewling nobility.

He watched her leave red-faced and hastily for the third time since their arrival and glared at Varel when he caught his eye. It wasn’t _his_ fault, he knew, but Nathaniel’s irritation was beyond that of a personal sort. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret as the seneschal looked away shamefaced; he was a good man, one who had saved the Commander from the Crow’s, and didn’t deserve any ill-will.

The night went on, and though the rain had kept the men and women of the Keep within its stone walls, it seemed to heighten their enthusiasm for gaeity. Nathaniel watched with irritation as Wardens and soldiers alike passed him laughing and joking, knowing the Commander would be feeling none of their merriment.

Annoyed, he made his way up the weathered stone steps towards the ramparts, knowing he’d find little disturbance there and could avoid the rain if he remained close to the walls.

The night air was cool, hitting Nathaniel like the remnants of a frost spell as he left the smokey warmth of the Keep. He grimaced at the initial exposure, hugging his cloak, but enjoyed the feeling soon enough. He let the chill clear his mind as he walked along the cobble, protected by the overhanging stone rafters. The only light was that of the moon, and even that was little more than a foggy luminescence over the rain, and he groped the wall as he walked, unsure of his path. The courtyard looked ominous below him, like some abandoned village inhabited by shadows, but those shadows, he knew, were merely unlucky guards on their night patrols. He almost smiled at that.

“Nathaniel?”

The voice surprised him and he jumped, turning his head back in-front of him to see a shrouded figure sitting against the stone.

“Commander?”

She laughed. “Don’t call me that, please.”

He approached her with some hesitance, struggling to recognize the elven woman beyond the voice he had come to know well, though it _was_ her, he knew, looking impossibly small outside her massive armour. She wore a dark cloak, her hood pulled low, and a simple dress of wool. Her feet were bare, and she extended her legs so that they’d go beyond the dry protection of the rafters. She motioned for him to sit beside her and he did, watching her remove her hood. Her hair was damp, sticking to her cheeks and neck.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your solitude,” he said as he sat. “But perhaps we’re of the same mind tonight.”

“One that says fuck nobility?”

He laughed. “Yes, that seems appropriate.”

She sighed, flexing her toes against the raindrops. “I’ve seen you watching. It makes it worst, almost. Your opinion of me is already so low.”  
Nathaniel furrowed his brows. “ _Low_? Why would you think that?”

“I killed your father, Nathaniel. Conscripted you near against your will, and often drag you into countless battles through mud and shit that risk your life. Why on earth would it _not_ be?”

He was silent for a moment, chewing the inside of his lip, considering her words. Once, he knew, he would have agreed.

“You’ve given me a purpose beyond revenge and petty pleasures. Not only is it an _honour_ to fight at your side, it’s enjoyable. You’re not so hard to like as I had thought, you know, once one gives you a chance.”

She smiled, taking no offence from his candour. “Not everyone’s willing to give me that. I’m glad you have.”

“It’s difficult for simple folk,” he replied softly. “Many only see you as the Commander of the Grey.”

“That, or the Hero. Or an elven girl playing at war. And then I feel as if I’m just a little girl again.” She paused, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. “A little elven girl who’s bad at reading and maths. Skipping lessons to climb the rooftops and throw stones at passing soldiers. Maker, how did I get here?”

She laughed quietly, though even in the darkness Nathaniel knew it didn’t reach her eyes.

He didn’t have an answer for her. “Would you take it all back, if you could? Being a Warden, all of it?”

She hesitated before responding, staring out at the lands beyond the Keep, nothing more than vague shapes of darkness. “No. No, I’ve known friendship and beauty and sacrifice. And we did something great, all of us, despite the cost. Despite...”

Her voice wandered off, and he could only assume she was thinking of Alistair.

Nathaniel wondered what that would feel like; to accept war and loss and suffering and heartbreak for a glimpse of love. He reached out, finding her hand in the darkness, and she let him take it, her eyes still down towards the courtyard. Her hand was small and cold in his own, but he could still feel the strength of it; the skin hardened by constant battle, the precision of its reflexes. He squeezed it in reassurance, not knowing what else to say, half feeling a like a child himself while sitting beside this woman who had gone through so much.

Aribeth gripped it back. They sat like that in the darkness and rain until they both eventually drifted off in slumber, leaning on each other’s shoulders, and the golden, rosy sunlight appeared on the horizon.

...

The situation was growing tense. The warring factions of darkspawn would not stay so idle for long, all knew, and so they waited in anticipation for the chance to end this folly. Varel waited on word from Amaranthine, busying himself with what he could, while the others did as they pleased. Justice and Anders debated, Sigrun read, Oghren drank, and Velanna hid. Aribeth kept to her quarters, brooding, or lingered in the sparring grounds, fighting the many who wished to try their arm against the Hero’s. She was like a caged beast watching prey; wanting to kill her enemy and be done with it, ignoring strategy and tactics. Perhaps that was the taint in her, thickening in her blood with each passing month, or just an inner restlessness Nathaniel could not defend. _He_ spent his days fletching or writing letters, trying to explain to distant relatives and old friends the mistakes of his father and of himself, and of being a Warden and its sudden, unbelievable importance. And through this he thought of Aribeth and the Blight. They were friends, it seemed. An odd thing; smiles accompanying passing glances, discussion over wine, jokes over a noble’s clothing, and sweet, youthful laughter. He had not felt so lighthearted for many years, despite the danger they approached. But he too was growing restless, and almost longed for an appearance of the darkspawn.

Searching for distraction, Nathaniel found Varel in his small, sparsely furnished office where he stayed most mornings, enjoying his own company for a few precious hours. He seemed to be reading something on Rivaini shield-making when Nathaniel approached and barely noticed when he reached his open doors.

“If I may?” he asked, waiting for admittance.

The Seneschal looked up and motioned for him to come inside with two fingers, marking the spot on his page with his other hand.

“Good morning, Nathaniel. Is there news from Amaranthine?”

“I wish there was,” came his weak reply. He entered the room and sat uncomfortably across from Varel, wondering if the other man resented him for his previous bitterness.

“Then is there something else I can assist you with?” His tone was light and unaffected, a thing for which Nathaniel was glad.

“I was hoping to assist _you_ ,” he responded, wondering if he was overstepping. “I’m sure I can help with matters of nobility and the court. Letters, even. I’ve had much experience with letters.”

Varel closed his book and brought a hand to his chin, considering Nathaniel’s offer.

“I’ve never thought you’d want to help,” he admitted after a moment. “But such help _would_ be appreciated. Perhaps you’ll even know some of these nobles.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Even if I don’t, I’m sure I’ll be able to understand what they’re about.”

They got to work swiftly. Varel seemed happy to have someone to chat with throughout his work, and Nathaniel was glad for the distraction, skimming through letters requesting various things of the Keep or asking permission of the arling for trifling projects with vague amusement. The seneschal focused on more important matters, missives from nobility beyond Ferelden or of Warden outposts around Thedas.

“Do you recognize this sigil?” Nathaniel asked him after near an hour had passed, holding up the wax seal on a letter he did not know.

Varel furrowed his brows. “An unpleasant lot. Unpleasant and _wealthy_. Of western Ferelden, a little beyond Redcliffe. Answer carefully.”

Nathaniel broke the wax quickly, intrigued.

“Great men of Vigil’s Keep,” the letter began. “Despite your previous assurances of this not being the case, our sources confirm that our statements remain true: an elven beggar has ruined that which the honest men of Ferelden have worked so hard for. A bloodline lasting centuries; accomplishments beyond counting. It is common thought that the Prince should have married Queen Anora, thus producing Therin children, a stable monarchy, honour for the Wardens, and a hero worthy of sitting at the throne. The elf should have died slaying the beast; payment for all she had taken in the name of being a Warden, and she should have been bloody grateful. She was a murderer, only saved by the hangman’s noose because of the Right of Conscription. Foolish. And all because of what? Her lost maidenhood and the Prince’s fool notion of honour? Don’t try and tell me it was _love_. The boy didn’t know the meaning of the bloody word, and most definitely not for her. If she has not slain the Archdemon, what has this elf done that a Ferelden man could not? Nothing. She had the aid of assassins and apostates. And so she should be removed from our soil and sent elsewhere where such things are tolerated. She is not our Hero, nor any Warden-Commander we will acknowledge. If you are a decent man of Ferelden you will understand.”

The parchment in Nathaniel’s hand was beginning to crumple under his grip.

“Varel,” he began, shaking his head. “This is repulsive. This... this is near treason. You _let_ them spew this filth?”

The seneschal paused for a moment before responding, bringing a hand to his forehead. A light smear of ink was left on his skin where he had rubbed it. “Some Ferelden nobility are not coy. It’s an inevitable evil, Nathaniel. We can do nothing but assure them we’re considering their words, even if we’re not. Surely you’ve encountered men of such opinions in your lifetime?”

Nathaniel stewed in disgust; towards himself and the letter both. He _had_ seen such beliefs. And not long ago, he knew, he likely would have been sympathetic to such words. But now...

“Has the Commander seen these?”

“No. I did not wish to trouble her further,” Varel replied quietly, returning to his letter. “And did not think it necessary.”

Nathaniel sighed, mostly of relief, but he could not deny that part of him wished Varel had shown her so she could _act_ on it, or write back with the witty passion he admired, or _defend_ herself at least.

He crushed the parchment in his hand and rested it on the desk, taking a moment to compose himself before he dipped his quill in ink and began at his response.

They were both ignorant of the darkspawn beginning their attack on their city, and ignorant of the boy of twelve running as fast he could to alert the Wardens he so admired.

...

For whatever reason, Aribeth had chosen to have him at her side as they made way for Amaranthine. And with her he stayed, until word came that the Keep had fallen, and until they had slain both the Architect and the Mother, quelling the woman’s passionate hate for the darkspawn and leaving her, or so it seemed, physically and mentally drained. Justice followed Anders, who had departed with warm, albeit rushed, farewells, and so only the two of them remained, camping in the woods, waiting on nothing. Nathaniel did not know what guidance to offer and remained quiet. The battles had taken a toll on him as well, and his thoughts seemed dazed from exhaustion.

Aribeth emerged from her tent little before noon; squinting her eyes as she gazed upwards to the bright mid-day above. Warm sun bathed the trees that surrounded them and left their camp feeling warm and airy as birds overhead sung pleasantly, unbothered by the recent qualms Ferelden had seen. Nathaniel sat leaned against a tree, doing nothing but enjoying the sunlight as he waited for the Hero to awaken.

She smiled when she saw him; bright and unhindered, flashing her unsightly teeth that he had come to love.

“Aribeth Tabris, up from her slumber at last. I wasn’t sure it would happen.”

“My dreams were so clear, Nathaniel. Beautiful, even.”

She sat beside him as she spoke, rubbing her eyes. “It has not been like that for a long time. And I think that means something.”

Nathaniel had not thought of dreams much. His were cloudy and nostalgic, a mixture of the salty air of the Marches and the musty odor of the Keep. Smiling faces passing those of malice.

“Shall we return to the Keep, then? Rebuild?”

She smiled sadly, her eyes avoiding his. “No. No, I don’t think I can do that. I’m sorry.”

He was quiet for a moment. “But what of the Wardens?”

“The Wardens... Oh, Alistair would have stayed, I think. He was such a loyal man, and passionate about our cause. As am I. And yet...” She paused, digging her toe into the dirt. “Perhaps it’s time for me to leave Ferelden and find my mabari. To explore Thedas in earnest.”

Despite himself, Nathaniel's eyes began to sting. “I understand.”

She turned to him, a knowing look in her eyes, and leaned towards him, pressing her forehead to his. Nathaniel reached up to cup her face and feel her skin, taking in the scent of sweat and elfroot and dirt, knowing it would one day leave him indefinitely.

“Was it love?” he asked before their lips met, gripping her neck and cheek with a sad passion.

“Something like that.”

...

She struggled to look the part of pilgrim, but perhaps it was because Nathaniel would always know her as Commander of the Grey. She kept her armour strapped to her horse and sported a leather jerkin and a grey cloak in its stead, light and practical and entirely out of character. Her hair was loose as well, an odd sight, a thousand ginger waves tumbling to her waist, but there was no mistaking who this was. And she wouldn’t escape it, he knew, despite how she may try.

“I wish to see Weisshaupt,” she told him as she prepared for her journey. “And tell them all I know. They’ll know me from my signet ring, hopefully, and the tales. But beyond that I wish to be anonymous. Let the world test an elven woman as it wishes.”

Nathaniel did not know what to tell her, and only nodded.

The sun was setting by the time she was ready to leave. They hugged sadly and slowly as all do in the face of departure, and broke apart with hesitance. He watched her mount her horse and take in the magnificence of the horizon that was calling her forwards, adventure beckoning.

“Aribeth,” he called out weakly, not knowing what he wanted to say, just wanting to be with her a moment longer.

His heart ached as she looked back at him, grinning her ridiculous grin.

He could only smile back. All that he wished to say seemed irrelevant and would never leave the warmth of his thoughts, he knew. He was grateful he at least had that.

“We’ll always have each other, Nathaniel. And we won’t even know it when we suddenly don’t.”

And then she was gone, kicking her heels to urge her mount forward and into the distance. He watched her until she was gone, knowing he’d likely never see her again. But he’d be with her, as she wished, in friendship and in love and in the bittersweet companionship the Taint gave all Wardens.

That would be enough. It would have to be.


End file.
